Spewing Venom

In a town of greener pastures, it only darkened me
a caffeine induced persona,
attempting to escape reality

Blue collar workers,
with clenched jaws and calloused hands,
raising their fists to the songs of the working man

But Springsteen never spoke to me,
like the ways of a punk symphony
with their torn shirts and studded jeans,
spewing venom in an enraged cacophony

As the downtrodden rise with the voice of alienation,
a wave of screeching guitars and careening drums,
engulf the plantations

As I, a lost soul, arrives to meet his passion,
the silence of suppression,
becomes the racket of obsession

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